The only guest who kept his chair, except Peter and myself, was a young fellow two seats away, whose eyes, brilliant with excitement, followed the merrymaking, but who seemed too much abashed, or too ill at ease, to join in the fun. I had noticed how quiet he was and wondered at the cause. Peter had also been watching the boy and had said to me that he had a good face and was evidently from out of town. “Why don't you get up?” Peter called to him at last. “Up with you, my lad. This is one of the times when every one of you young fellows should be on your feet.” He would have grabbed a banner himself had any one given him the slightest encouragement. “I would, sir, but I'm out of it,” said the young man with a deferential bow, moving to the empty seat next to Peter. He too had been glancing at Peter from time to time. “Aren't you with Mr. Morris?” “No, I wish I were. I came with my friend, Garry Minott, that young fellow carrying the banner with 'Corn Exchange' marked on it.” “And may I ask, then, what you do?” continued Peter. The young fellow looked into the older man's kindly eyes--something in their expression implied a wish to draw him the closer--and said quite simply: “I don't do anything that is of any use, sir. Garry says that I might as well work in a faro bank.” Peter leaned forward. For the moment the hubbub was forgotten as he scrutinized the young man, who seemed scarcely twenty-one, his well-knit, well-dressed body, his soft brown hair curled about his scalp, cleanly modelled ears, steady brown eyes, white teeth--especially the mobile lips which seemed quivering from some suppressed emotion--all telling of a boy delicately nurtured. “And do you really work in a faro bank?” Peter's knowledge of human nature had failed him for once. “Oh, no sir, that is only one of Garry's jokes. I'm clerk in a stock broker's office on Wall Street. Arthur Breen & Company. My uncle is head of the firm.” “Oh, that's it, is it?” answered Peter in a relieved tone. “And now will you tell me what your business is, sir?” asked the young man. “You seem so different from the others.” “Me! Oh, I take care of the money your gamblers win,” replied Peter, at which they both laughed, a spark of sympathy being kindled between them. Then, seeing the puzzled expression on the boy's face, he added with a smile: “I'm Receiving Teller in a bank, one of the oldest in Wall Street.” A look of relief passed over the young fellow's face. “I'm very glad, sir,” he said, with a smile. “Do you know, sir, you look something like my own father--what I can remember of him--that is, he was--” The lad checked himself, fearing he might be discourteous. “That is, he had lost his hair, sir, and he wore his cravats like you, too. I have his portrait in my room.” Peter leaned still closer to the speaker. This time he laid his hand on his arm. The tumult around him made conversation almost impossible. “And now tell me your name?”